Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe

Gayfeather, colic-root, rattlesnake-master, blazing star,( devil's bite, Cahaba torch, prairie-pine,) I took your list to that fireworks store in Upland, gathered & checked off each rocket, then imagined how you'd stare at a forest fire (guilty? gleeful?) as I put them all back.

Flying to Antarctica as a medical tourist to see penguins and have my heart hidden in a clay jar in a woolen sack in a battered sea chest buried 2 miles beneath Denman Glacier.

I've found positions that ease the pain. The standing ones require my left hand be kept at my nape, though, limiting the attitudes I can convey to those triangulated by cockiness, frustration, & endearing chagrin. Good thing I can get by on those for ages.

I saw this drawing of a 19th c. reptile skull near the start of this spell of debilitating, nauseous back pain, and I'm grateful for its expert manifestation of the feeling my less specialized face can't quite express.

I want to look & feel more like the cover of the Melt! 12".

The vernal pools beep when ready to dispense frogs.

My mother asked why I already had a bountiful supply of nitrile gloves, and I was like, "Oh, they're useful for all kinds of things."

While walking last night I found a texturally camouflaged metal tyrannosaur skeleton and a single pristine jigsaw piece. The sharp reduction of human industry is allowing hidden object puzzles to lay claim to my neighborhood.

Got a big isolation fan here. A real fiend for cloistering.

Reckon someone from the high school jubilantly shotput this chair over that fence when the district shutdown was announced. Probably a student, but I'm not ruling out union faculty.

Corduroy jacket.

Fretting slightly over the gibbous overlap in the Venn of {people I care about} & {people who are constantly touching their faces}.
(Including myself, obviously. I'll have bitten my knuckle & tapped my cheekbone by the time you read this.)

Even in the absence of other inoculating experiences, having worked in a field in which my bosses were often women would have sufficed to prevent my becoming painfully idealistic about womanhood.

I may never tire of authors building beautiful things in the first half of their books and destroying them in the second. Vivid cities abruptly razed, poignant webs of relationships clipped by multiple murder... it's a pattern/feeling I'm an absolute sucker for.

I've only twice heckled a band. The first time was when half of Black Lips finished their tedious opening set by getting their cocks out, and the second was when Richard Bishop said something derisive about Pansy Division.

Historically, the best way to gain & keep my attention at a party has been to feed me a slow, vivid account of the time your lung collapsed.

Doomed to have my whole brainbody mess periodically wracked by insomnia because I find chamomile repellent.

In this period of renovation, the fluttering of the museum's diaphanous lungs is visible in the Great Stair Hall.

It's my birthday and my head's acidic & empty like an unfed gut. I want a skirt in the pattern of this Sasaki Atsushi dish so that when volition deserts me I can stare at my thighs & be filled with visions of poisonous molluscs & hand-made pasta & tangled masses of mating snakes.

Plucking the fire off a match, squeezing it with my thumb & forefinger until it bursts, and smudging its thin blue-orange juice along my cheekbones. Saving the spent match-head to dab behind my ears.

I told someone to shoot their popper full of streamers directly at me, and I'm still covered in highly desirable nesting material.